


Twenty Minutes

by Laiquilasse



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: First Kiss, First Time, Fix-It, Frottage, Hand Jobs, Kissing, M/M, One Shot, Resolved Sexual Tension, Sexual Content, TJLC | The Johnlock Conspiracy, The lying detective, season 4, the HUG
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-09
Updated: 2017-01-09
Packaged: 2018-09-15 23:57:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,488
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9264803
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Laiquilasse/pseuds/Laiquilasse
Summary: The kiss is firm – like a stamp of ownership. It isn’t a questioning kiss of quietness. It’s a claim on John, a 'mine now, not letting you go' declaration, even though there’s only the two of them in the room.*There were twenty minutes between the hug, and the boys going for cake. What happened after our screens faded to black?





	

“About twenty minutes?”

“I can look after myself for twenty minutes.”

Except.

Except then John is talking to a woman he knows isn’t there. He’s tell her about the crime that’s been eating him alive over these past few weeks and months. The one he never got to own up to before she was stolen from him.

Except then John is sobbing, hot fat tears of shame rolling down his face even as he tries to stem the flow with his hand.

Except then Sherlock.

Except then Sherlock is there, closing the space between them awkwardly, hands on John’s body, and for once neither of them is resisting or doing the masculine back-slapping and grinning routine because this is going to be different. And John makes himself small, allows Sherlock to hold him – to _cradle_ him – close.

Sherlock is trembling, still. The tremors will take a while to fade, if they ever completely do. He touches John gently, like asking permission, and John allows him to. His spidery hands are on John’s neck and arm, and _god_ , he’s resting his head on top of John’s.

“It’s ok.”

“It’s not ok.”

“No, it’s not ok. But it is what it is.”

And that feel like more than enough, because John’s face is pressed against Sherlock’s chest, lungs filling with the close scent of him, hearing the soft thrum of his heartbeat. _It is what it is_. And what it is, is a cage made of Sherlock’s arms and body, and embrace, and John wants more than anything to lock himself inside, but he’s forgotten how to move, how to speak, how to do anything but grieve.

And it feels like the universe is fading to black, like this is another chance that will go unfulfilled, like this is a moment slipping through their fingers like sand from a broken hourglass.

Except.

Sherlock’s head, atop John’s own, moves just enough for the detective to plant a kiss on John’s hair.

John stills at the sensation.

The kiss is firm – like a stamp of ownership. It isn’t a questioning kiss of quietness. It’s a claim on John, a _mine now, not letting you go_ declaration, even though there’s only the two of them in the room.

So John flattens his hands from their balled-up fists, and presses them against Sherlock’s shirt, smoothing out the cotton as he tries think of something to say.

But maybe there’s no need to speak.

There’s a synchronicity that only exists in movies. You don’t see it in real life, and John had always scoffed at it. And yet here it is, happening right now as he leans up and Sherlock leans down, and their noses brush, finding their way.

And John is shaking, his stomach in knots because this is happening, now, and there’s no taking it back.

It’s a poor excuse for a kiss, to start. Dry, and apologetic, and too quick, but Sherlock’s hand is still on John’s neck, and that helps keep them locked together as the first morphs into the second, third… and then there’s no point in counting, because it’s just kissing, non-stop, as if either of them could drop dead if they as much as think about stopping.

John hands are clenched on bunches of shirt and dressing gown, and Sherlock is holding him fast, like a dancer, like when they danced, in secret, behind closed curtains, and John had been so sure the sparks struck between their bodies were all in his mind.

They’re against the desk, now, Sherlock pressed against it because somehow John has taken the reins and his hands are going for Sherlock’s top button on auto-pilot.

And it’s ok.

It’s like remembering something you never knew you’d forgotten. It’s like seeing a photograph of a place you’ve never been, but recognising the landmarks. It’s like nothing John thought it would be.

The dressing gown falls to the floor, and they step away from it.

There’s no need to keep kissing as they move away from it, because this is going to happen either way, now, and John has only to take Sherlock’s hand and lead him to his bedroom.

Neither of them speak.

The door is closed, as if there’s an audience they’re denying a view to.

But there’s just the two of them. There always has been, in the end. And always will be, it seems.

Clothes are discarded, unnecessary, shoes kicked away before they come back, underwear only, together in the same embrace as before, mirroring the hug in the living room, except now it’s skin to skin, and John’s breath is coming in little pants, not from tears but from anticipation.

“John…”

It’s the only word, hanging in the air.

“It’s ok,” John says. He swallows, and looks up, biting his lip before speaking again. “It… it is what it’s always been, isn’t it.”

And it’s not really a question.

But Sherlock answers anyway, smiling before moving in, and John responds faster than before, mouths meeting, lips parting, and gentle sounds swallowed each by the other as they stagger over to the bed and arrange themselves, neither quite sure who is meant to be where until Sherlock is on his back and John is half on top of him, one leg between both of Sherlock’s, no chance of hiding what this is doing to either of them.

John can see Sherlock’s body properly, now, and it’s as he imagined it would be – scrawny and malnourished and spattered with bruises. Bruises John inflicted when he punched and kicked this man.

The man he has beneath him, so vulnerable, and still so trusting.

John traces his fingertips, feather-light, up over Sherlock’s ribs – he isn’t ticklish it seems - to the worst of the yellow-and-black stains he kicked into that white skin.

Sherlock takes his hand and wrist before he can get to it, and for a moment John is frightened this is over.

But it isn’t.

Sherlock smiles, a tiny ghost of a smile, and takes John’s hand down, past his concave stomach to the erection tenting his underwear, and John’s heart leaps. Sherlock presses John’s hand to his cock, and shudders as John’s fingers grip.

There isn’t time for a lot.

But it has to be now.

Before someone, something, breaks the spell.

Underwear is kicked off, and there’s a moment of _do I look, do I not look_ from them both, before they crack identical evil grins and both take a deliberate longer-than-a-glance at what they’ve got to deal with.

And Sherlock parts his legs, just a touch more.

It’s enough for John to settle between, close enough to be flush with one another, and face to face as their cocks slot together in heat.

And they kiss again, softer, this time, Sherlock’s hands on John’s back as John rolls his hips and they both let out little cries. It’s close, and it’s quick, and it’s bodies and touching, and it’s sex, and it’s making John want to cry all over again.

Heat rushes through his body at the sensation of Sherlock’s erection against his own. Sherlock has one knee raised, maybe an unconscious invitation for more, but there simply isn’t time. Not today.

But there will be time.

There will be time.

Sherlock moans, his chest heaving as he tries to keep control of himself. Perhaps this is the first time he’s done anything like this. John hasn’t thought to ask, but he bears it in mind as he reaches between them and takes them both in hand, pulling firmly.

“John!” Sherlock rolls his head back, exposing his throat, and it’s all John can do to kiss it and drag his teeth over those jutting collarbones, and taste that detoxing skin. Sherlock is moving his hips up in little thrusts, his cock rubbing against John’s own and his hand in a way that makes him want to die. “John, I…”

“It’s ok,” John breaths against his neck. “It’s ok. It’s…”

“Oh god-”

And Sherlock is coming, seemingly helplessly, his cock throbbing in John’s grip, come splattering his skin, running down John’s fingers to lubricate his motions so his own climax comes not a moment later in a half-sobbed groan of release.

That it’s finally done.

That they finally did it.

Sherlock holds him again, both of them on their sides, John’s face hidden in his chest once more.

“You don’t do relationships,” John says after a few heartbeats.

Sherlock hums. “I think I could make an exception. You make a pretty persuasive argument.”

“So do you.” John touches the bruise, then, laying a hand flat over the wound. “I love you.”

“I know… I left it too late, and then you had Mary, and –”

“I’m not asking for an apology.”

Sherlock strokes down his back, then. “I love you. I think I have… always. In some capacity.”

“Well,” John half-laughs. “That’s better than nothing.”

Sherlock smiles. “It is what it is.”

**Author's Note:**

> If you've enjoyedg this story, my YA Novels are now on the TAPAS App, to read for free.  
> •  
> [Click Here To Read A Dance of Love & Death - a Gay Romance ](https://m.tapas.io/series/A-Dance-of-Love-and-Deat)  
> •  
> [Click Here To Read The Boy Princess - a Transgender Romance ](https://tapas.io/series/The-Boy-Princess/)
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>  
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> Thank you for all your support with this fic!


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